Close enough to burn your skin
“So you’re going out for drinks?” Steve asks.
“It’s a roommate thing,” Bucky tells him as he checks over the next gun. He’s cleaned this one twice now, but it’s good to have a reason not to pay too much attention to Steve sometimes.
“Is anyone else going?" Steve asks.
“I don’t know. I don't think so," Bucky says. He hopes no one else is going. He's been sort of looking forward to having Clint all to himself. "It's just drinks, Steve.”
“It’s just a date, Bucky.” Steve says. “If he asked you and no one else is going, it’s a date.”
“Or, it’s just drinks..."
*
"Did I ask him on a date, Nat?" Clint asks.
“Where are you taking him?”
“I’m not taking him, it’s not a date. We’re just going out. Together." It can't be a date, because if it's a date then Clint's making a move on the Winter Soldier's boyfriend. If Clint's making a move on The Winter Soldier's boyfriend then Clint is going to end up in hospital. Again.
“Where are you going? Together?” Natasha asks with a tone that says she is definitely humouring him.
“The club down the street."
“Mmhm," she says. That sounds judgemental. She's judging him. “What are you wearing?”
“I was thinking... just jeans and a t-shirt. Y'know, my clubbing t-shirt."
“You mean the obscenely tight jeans and the shirt without the arms so you can show off your biceps?" she asks.
“Uh... yes?” Clint looks at said jeans. They’re not that tight. Well... they make his ass look good, but...
“You’re taking him on a date,” Natasha says.
“You should come. It can't be a date if you come."
“If Sam and I come, it's a double date," Natasha says.
“Oh god, that’s worse.”
“If you don’t want to go, then text him and say something came up,” she says, like that’s a reasonable solution. But Clint can’t cancel. Bucky had checked that they were still going this morning when they bumped into each other.
“I ca-an’t,” he wails, making Lucky whine at him.
“Then I guess you’re going on a date.”
Clint hangs up on her, because he can tell that she’s about to start laughing at him out right, rather than politely in her head like usual.
He looks at Lucky. Lucky looks back at him.
“Fuck my life," he says.
*
The last time Bucky went dancing it was 1944 and he was in Britain. The Lindy-hop had been all the rage and he'd been wearing uniform.
Clubbing hasn't really been on his To Do list for the 21st century, but seeing Clint in that outfit makes him regret his short-sightedness.
Clint seems a bit nervous. Maybe this is a date. But neither of them has said the word, so Bucky's still floating in a strange sort of limbo. It used to be easy, you'd ask the dame out, they'd say yes – or they'd slap you round the face for getting fresh – and you’d take her dancing. Guys were... more complicated, but still, there was a way of doing things.
Now there are labels and social media and Facebook complicated and Bucky doesn't know if there's like a queer code he's missing out on.
But if this is a date, then Bucky’s gonna make it the best date he possibly can. He’s gonna make it so that even if this isn’t a date, Clint’s gonna be begging for a second.
And maybe there'll only be one bedroom in use tonight. Maybe that’s pushing it too far, but Bucky has moves.
He remembers having moves.
He scans the club like he scans everything in his life these days. He sees the exits, he sees the threats. He sees the giggly girls eyeing the pair of them from the bar, and he resists the urge to move into Clint's personal space a bit more, to give off that mine vibe. Hell, he doesn't know that this is a date and he doesn't even know for sure if Clint's gay, for all he's seen the guy checking him out occasionally.
But as well as that, he’s assessing the people on the dancefloor, the way they’re moving. He’s seen people dancing in this century, but he’s never paid them a lot of attention. He follows the sway and the rhythm of it, the way they surge together and pull apart. There’s a lot of hip action, a lot of sliding over and around each other. It's not the joyous bounce of the jitterbug. It's more... intense.
Clint knows the bartender and he’s ordered them drinks before Bucky’s turned away from the dancefloor.
“You okay?” he says, and Bucky understands how he manages, even with the hearing aids, because the music, for all intents and purposes, means that they’re all on a level playing field reading each other’s lips because the noise of the music drowns out all song. “I know this isn’t your kind of place, but...” Bucky reaches over to grab his drink as the barman sets it down. It takes him right into Clint’s personal space and he sees Clint’s eyes dart down and his tongue flicker over his lips, which is exactly the response he was hoping for. He holds Clint’s gaze as he picks up the drink and tips it up to swallow.
“I’m good,” he says. “You wanna dance.”
Clint gulps down his own beer rather frantically.
“If I say yes, am I gonna get shot?” he asks, which is a really weird thing to ask, even for Clint. Does he know? Bucky thought that he’d got away with the other week when he’d caught Clint in the kitchen... But Clint’s looking around the room like he’s searching for someone in the shadows. It doesn’t look like he’s worried about Bucky shooting him. Apparently he’s scared someone else might. Who knows what's going on in his head?
Bucky just stares at him and shakes his head.
“No shooting, just dancing,” he says. “Come on, Barton. Show me your moves. Or are you a two left feet kind of guy?”
“Two left...?” Clint splutters. “I can dance, jackass. You are going to watch me dance."
“Sounds good,” Bucky tells him. He remembers the smile spreading over his lips, slow and heavy with meaning. He sees the way it makes Clint swallow reflexively.
He’s got this.
Clint moves like fucking sin. The way the man bends. Bucky's eyes are glued to him, to the way the muscles in his back and ass are just... fuck. Bucky is very much in favour of 21st century dancing.
The press on the dancefloor is so thick that he ends up practically touching the guy. It's a pity because he has to drag his eyes away, but it's damn good because he can feel Clint's body heat through his clothes, he can smell his sweat. That should be disgusting, but that, combined with the heat burning through him and the way Clint's moving, their bodies fitting together in sync, just makes Bucky think of other things they could be doing that would be this sweaty. Thinks about sweat pooling in the hollow of Clint's back, dripping down him like the melted water from those ice cubes.
He’s about to take the plunge. His hand is poised to run lightly over Clint’s hip, a question and a suggestion at the same time.
Then his card buzzes in his pocket.
He swears. No one hears him.
It’s the alert card, which means it’s a call to assemble, which means it’s an emergency, which means lives are at stake.
Looking at the line of Clint’s neck, Bucky wants to say ‘fuck it’ to heroing and just bury his mouth right into that muscle.
But no...
He pulls himself back and checks the card as surreptitiously as he can.
Steve's face is blinking at him, with an SOS.
By the time he looks up the crowd has moved and so has Clint, Bucky can't even see him through the people.
There’s no time.
He curses his luck and heads for the door.